Fires & Ghosts
by serphxheat
Summary: AHS Coven AU: Kyle woke up one day realizing he had one small problem, being dead. Now the only thing left for him to do is follow Zoe around and pretend he's totally not stalking. Can the dead really be stalkers anyway? "Being dead sucks. But at least I'm not stuck in that shitty denial stage. At least I know I'm dead."


Being dead sucks. Balls. Dicks. Dicks and balls. All the sucking that has ever sucked in life is associated with being dead. Or I guess being dead but not being able to do anything about being dead. That is what really sucks. I mean all things considered I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm not bound to a house like many of my other undead comrades. (Is that right? Isn't undead zombies?) Well anyway I'm also not stuck in that shitty denial stage aka the whole 'I'm not really dead! I'm totally alive! I just don't age or anything! Why are there people moving into _my_ house?!"

Seriously check out that Amityville shit. What do you think that was? And no the answer isn't demons. It wasn't bullshit asshole demons. The only assholes I've met were either alive or us dead jerks who decide that it should still be _our _house even though we're fucking dead.

I always heard that the dead had trouble letting go or some crap like that. The reality is we have just as much trouble holding on as we do letting go. I mean yeah we tend to be way more obsessive than the living and we're way more focused than most in our desires. But fuck do we get depressed. I mean that whole moaning and wailing thing? Yeah totally not a rumor or something you see on bad TV. We do that. A lot. Way more than those crap haunting TV shows make you believe. It feels like you can't go more than five minutes in a conversation without someone letting out a little whine, whimper, or full on cry.

But like I said I'm one of the lucky ones. I left a pretty good looking corpse. I'm not one of those brains splattered all across my clothes. Or one of those cut in half (poor bastards, seriously they're always crawling on their hands and then have to wait for their dumb idiot lost legs to catch up.) Hell I'm not even one of those miserable tear stained teens who cut a little too deep or didn't have parents who checked on them after they threatened that they were 'really going to do it this time.' (Those kids tend to leave pretty nice corpses too but their hands tend to work for shit. Slitting your tendons tend to do that to you. Though I have seen some who write their dark angsty poetry with their feet. Pretty talented if you ask me.)

How'd I die you ask? Jesus didn't even offer to buy me a damn dinner did you? You know that's the problem with people today, everyone wanting all the story without any work invested. Just gimmie gimmie gimmie. Well what the hell, why not?

I left behind a beautiful corpse because of smoke. No I didn't do anything dramatic like kill myself with the car in the garage or even OD on some smoke based drug. Hell I didn't even want to die… Though let's be honest most of us didn't _really_ want to die. The reason I died was because of a man. No it wasn't sexual. God why do people's minds always go there? No I died cause my neighbor let's call him Mr. Rogers, (he always seemed like the kind of guy who'd totally have a little train and a puppet kitten hanging around his house.) So Mr. Rogers' he fancied himself the next great inventor of Shamwow or some other shit. Mr. Rogers seemed to think that he could make the next post it note. Though no one told him he was a little too late, mostly because he was a nice old man…. Minus the whole killing me thing of course. He was a retired bus driver or something totally banal and not at all likely to cause homicidal rage. (Which leads me to believe he didn't _mean_ to kill me. Not really anyway.)

So moving on Mr. Rogers forgot that if you leave flammable liquids in glass beakers over fire while you help little Billy find his missing dog they'll probably explode… which is exactly what they did. Shattering little explosive fiery shards into the walls, floor, and all those old newspapers that Mr. Rogers had been meaning to clean up. So yeah I'd say the apartment went up like a stack of matches but that's totally cliché, so I'll say it went up like a dryer sheet. (Seriously have you ever tried lighting one of those on fire?) The good news was everyone was out of the building minus yours truly of course.

I was fast asleep on the bed. I'd stayed up late helping my buddy through his hang over. He was depressed about his girlfriend dumping him for her tennis instructor… who was a really hot lady teacher. I'd be lying if I said it didn't sound exactly like the set up for a bad porno. Anyway my buddy and the random drunk girl he'd picked up stayed at my place. Now you see I've got this weird thing were I don't like hearing my friends and some loud overly drunk (and probably faking it) girl having sex right next to my bedroom. So I put my headphones on and cranked the volume up all the way, so their moans and groans disappeared behind the heavy guitars and loud drums. I'm pretty sure I died on 'Highway to hell' or maybe 'Another one bites the dust' or something equally ironic like that.

Anyway before the flames ate my flesh to a blackened crisp, the smoke got to me first and apparently according to stupid dead people laws, whatever gets you first (whatever killed you) is how your body will look. So the fact that my actual corpse is just a shriveled black hunk of meat has nothing to do with me in this not quite afterlife. Like I said, lucky me. I'm also lucky in that I'm not bound to a house. Not that there was much left of my apartment besides the blackened wood and a few bathtubs. Too bad I hadn't passed out there, I totally would have lived if I had. But the good news is I'm not trapped in my shitty apartment haunting some 450 square foot space going nuts about that _one_ stain on the floor that I couldn't get rid of no matter how much I scrubbed. Or looking at that one picture frame that wasn't totally straight thanks to the bent wire holding it up.

I remember standing outside the burning building and just _knowing_ that I was dead. It wasn't a slow realization that took years. No it took seconds if that. It was a little like getting kicked in the balls. That immediate sharp agonizing pain that leaves you crumpled on the ground gasping for air.

Let me tell you looking at your own dead body is weird. I mean you sort of always imagine dying in a dignified manner like you see on TV and movies. You don't expect to be all shriveled and broken and black with crackles of bloody red. Hell you don't ever think your balls could look so shriveled. (Trust me it was one of the first things I checked, just to make sure mine weren't as bad looking as my body made them look. Just cause if I'm honest I really didn't want to spend eternity with a crusted blackened pair of raisins between my legs.)

I like to think that I handled the whole dying, being dead thing rather gracefully… excluding the hysterical screaming and sobbing and eventual break down into a fetal position trying to rock some sense back into my body. Hey _you_ try dying and see how gracefully it goes for you! But I guess that's the rub isn't it? Death isn't graceful or pretty or anything great. It just plain sucks. So there I was finally collecting myself after the numbness that set in after an emotional breakdown. I stared at the smoldering ruins of my life and wondered _what _now? What does one do after finding out they're dead? I mean yeah I could go the totally douche way of scaring the shit out of children by hiding in their closets and staring at them as they try to sleep. (That totally happened to me as a child. Asshole.) Or I could unnerve people in a hospital by moving their pens and shit around. But honestly that all sounded like work and after dying I figured I deserve a vacation.

That's when I see _her_ in the corner of my eye. I lick my lips and straighten my hair trying to still the explosive fireworks going off in my chest. I strolled as casually as I can over to her side.

"Pretty bad huh?" I chuckle trying to make light of the situation. I knew she wouldn't appreciate the joke. She was the kind of person who let the tragedy and sadness of an event fill her. She wasn't like everyone else trying to shut down the feelings. Trying to numb the pain. No she embraced it fully. Held it close and rocked it to sleep within her small body. In this moment standing next to her with the smoldering ruins of my life in the background. Her lips tremble as she bites them trying to stifle the little sobs building in her slender frame. The way the fire made her honey brown eyes dance with life. I've never wanted to kiss someone more than in that moment. I wanted to feel what her lips on mine would taste like. Though to be fair I'd been wanting to kiss her for months now. It was just in this moment that all those months compressed into a single aching need.

My cute little Zoe. Meeting her had been the focal point of my life. On my way home from school every day I always cut through the parking lot of the fire station. It was a tiny one probably built like 100 years ago. There was never more than one fire truck in the lot also looking like it was eighty years past its prime. The first few weeks of class I got away with it. It cut a whole thirty minutes from my jog to get to my nuclear engineering and science class. But on week four I heard a voice call out to me.

"You know this is private property right?" I swore in my head, trying to think of a good excuse. I couldn't really say I hadn't noticed there was a fire station here (especially considering the alarms and sirens going off six times a week which always jolted me awake. It had gotten so bad I'd actually flip off the trucks as they rolled past my window.) I could try the whole 'I'm sick and think I'm dying.' But I never liked to say something like that unless it was true. It always seemed to be bad luck to me. I know I know ironic… a spook who's superstitious. It's like the biggest oxymoron ever. I plaster on a smile. I'd spent my life being paraded around by my mother, who insisted on showing off how smart I was. Or what great deed I'd done last week. Though I bet if anyone learned the _real_ reason I had such good grades and did so many activities away from home they'd shit themselves. It would be funny for a while until the reality of the situation shifted everything. That shift is the very reason I kept quiet. Call it fear of change. Call it fear of rejection. (From friends, from life, from everything.) Call it whatever you want but it doesn't change me or the past.

I turned trying to invoke the cherub like look my mother said I was graced with. My lips quirked into a smile feeling my dimples pull my grin wider. That coupled with my blonde hair, I knew I had 'adorably boyish charm' or so I've been told. I'm hoping it will be enough to charm my way out of this mess before my class starts. An apology is forming on my tongue by the time I've turned to the voice it has completely died in my mouth. In fact all thoughts seem to have died inside of me. I'd always liked to think I was pretty smart, I mean not Einstein but I was on a full ride scholarship and could pick up most things pretty easily. But at that moment I felt like one of those brain dead cavemen on that commercial trying to buy insurance for their T-Rex or something. I tried to get my brain to work beyond the 'wow wow wow' that was repeating endlessly in my head.

A girl maybe a year or three younger than me was staring at me from atop the fire truck. One thin pale leg swinging over the edge as she peered down at me. Her light brown hair blowing in the soft September breeze. Her large honey brown eyes watching me closely. There was a wisdom to her that many other girls my age lacked. A kind of maturity I thought only women in their thirties gained. She looked like she would have been one of those kids who would have spent time alone just because everyone around her couldn't keep up with her thoughts. I wanted nothing more than to challenge that mind. Though currently my brain wouldn't be much of a challenge not able to think anything beyond 'wow' and 'wonder what her name is?'

She smiled pushing her long hair behind her ears. I noticed a few pieces rebelliously fell back into her face. She had a face that would make most men howl with longing. She wasn't the most beautiful person on the planet but to me in this lifetime and the next she was the most stunning, breath stealing, soul aching person to have ever existed. "So why do you cut through this lot every day?" I wanted to come up with some sort of witty remark but how witty can you really get with 'I'm poor and can't afford a car so I have to run to reach the train every day because I tend to stay up too late reading or watching the latest reality TV bullshit for five hours straight?'

"It's faster?" I try. She raises an eyebrow. Okay not my best moment, I mentally chide.

"Alright next question, how come you flip off the fire trucks whenever they roll by?" I gulp. It had become so automatic that I'd flip them off never really considering where I was when I did it.

"It's stupid really, they just tend to go off whenever I'm working or trying to sleep. Sort of my childish rebellion against them I guess." She smiled at that her eyes warming even more if possible. She chuckled softly the sound electrifying the air in my lungs. She looked perfect perched on the truck with her face full of mirth. Something I wanted to take a picture of her at this moment and use it as a measurement for how perfect a moment should be.

"Well that's better than the kids who always ask to turn the sirens on. _That_ gets old."

"Aw it's every kids dream to ride in a fire truck. That and slide down those giant stripper poles." She grinned at my terrible joke.

"It's not really as fun as it looks. Too many of the guys fart on the way down. Just to you know spread the love." I couldn't help the grin that warmed my cheeks, the mental image of a hundred smelly old fat guys on the pole totally ruined my pervious mental image of hot girls in short shorts sliding down.

"You totally ruined that childhood dream for me." She smile again and tipped her head towards the fire station. Her back arching gracefully like some untamed wild cat that would totally maul you if you tried to pet it. At this moment I'd be tempted to try anyway.

"Trust me the dream is not nearly as glamorous as it seems." Her face fell slightly as she stared at the ancient building.

"Do you work here then?" I asked trying to decide if she really looked strong enough to carry 400 pound men out of burning buildings. The mental image didn't fit. I could see her covered in soot and saving children and puppies stuck in trees. But the image of her running into such red hot danger burned me the wrong way.

"Something like that." She smiled. "Technically I live, work, and am imprisoned here." She bit her cuticle. "My dad is the fire chief. Mom runs the kitchen."

"What do you do?"

"Try to get out?" She offered. "Most fire chiefs live like outside the station but my dad loves the action of a call and my mom loves pretending she's some undiscovered cooking genius. So it works out well for them. Me? I just get to be bored most days."

"Well lucky you getting to be around lonely firemen all day." I say it without thinking. I desperately want to take the words back. Realizing how horrible it sounds. I hadn't meant anything bad by it, but jealousy made me respond overly harsh. But instead of getting offended like every other girl I'd met (hell I'd probably be offended too if someone said that to me) she smiles a teasing grin.

"Only problem is half are married or old, the rest are grade a douche bags with the intelligence of a goldfish. Too bad you don't have to take an IQ test to run into burning buildings."

"I get the feeling the higher IQ people wouldn't want to run into burning buildings." She chuckles again. I'm desperate to hear that sound once more. "What would you rather be doing?" She shrugs.

"Anything. Nothing? I'm not sure. Still trying to find where I fit in this great puzzle board of a universe." Every girl I'd ever met always talked about their great plans and their Jupiter engulfing dreams. Never had I met someone who so openly admitted she didn't know where she belonged. If her place was here or someone out there. "What about you? What's your master plan?" I shrug and lean against a tree on the edge of the lot. Still in the perfect spot to keep looking at her.

"I'm going to college, studying to be an engineer." Her eyes brightened at that as she leaned forward excitedly.

"Really? You're not studying communications or something?"

"Nah." I chuckled and shook my head. "I want to build things that will help people. Solve some of the problems in our world."

"That's a rather noble goal." I shrugged. I didn't see it as noble or anything just important. It's important to help others who can't help themselves. "Well since you're on such a noble quest, I think I'll let you continue to cut through this lot. Be grateful it was me and not my dad who caught you." She grinned her fingers dancing to an invisible beat on her thigh.

"What's your name?" I called not moving a muscle until I learned her name.

"Zoe." She said softly nearly a whisper. I ran the name over and over in my head. Desperate to try it out for myself. To call her by name and see how it felt on my tongue. "Yours?"

"Kyle." I gave her a tender smile.

"Well Kyle I imagine I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

I was late to class by almost forty minutes but even the lecture from my teacher couldn't knock me out of the clouds I was fly on.

For months I found myself nearly late every day because I couldn't stand to _not_ stop and talk to Zoe. When I first met her it was her beauty that moved me but that was quickly eclipsed by her personality. She was so smart, witty, a little dark, fearless, dynamic, interesting, and about a hundred over mushy adjectives. She shared with me as much as I shared with her and by the time of finals I felt like I'd shared half my soul with her. Every time the fire truck passed I'd check to see if she was inside. I started spending evenings at the fire house. Her mother actually was an undiscovered cooking genius. And her father really was in love with the action but I'd classify it more with the love of life and the adventures that life brings.

Late into the evening or early into the morning we'd talk about everything and nothing. Her favorite books. My favorite films. My grades slipped slightly as my brain wanted to hold only information relevant to her inside my grey matter. We even went on dates or as close to dates as one could get without the awkward trying to define our relationship moment. Things seemed perfect, blissful and continued that way for almost a year and a half.

Until the explosion of glass and fire while Mr. Rogers looked for a dog. Until the moment I knew things would never be the same. I very much wish I could pull a Patrick Swayze in Ghost moment and delude myself into thinking this wouldn't change anything. That I could still have a relationship with Zoe. That we could totally make ghost dildo pottery together. (Ignoring the fact that neither of us have ever used a pottery wheel once in our lives.) But looking at her huge eyes filling with tears, I knew that it couldn't be that way. The tears she spilled over my body burned me inside and out. Harsher than the fire could have ever been. Thermite doesn't burn as hot as the emotions in my chest. I wanted to pull her away saying she didn't need to cry over such a ruined form. But the moment my hand went through her arm I realized there was no comfort in this world, the next, or the one before that could help her now.

And that's how I found myself here fingers pressed up to my mouth holding my emotions in as I gaze at her from across the table. The setting is beautiful. Just the two of us at a small round table the fading sunlight bouncing off her hair in little fractals that create an explosion of feeling inside of me. The clouds are dyed a golden color like some spun wool in a children's tale. The whole world is silent but for her pen scratching across her paper. It's the picture perfect romance movie moment between the two lovers that never seemed like they would ever work out. Except that they do and everything is perfect.

Only it's not… I'm dead and she's escaping. Or trying to. The person I'd met that perfect afternoon has pulled so deep into herself I can barely see her anymore. She's been working hard over the last year. Taking nuclear engineering and science, and quantum physics, and a writing class. A whim I'm sure. But I like her writing, it's a little dark and depressing sure but it's also full of her spirit. Each word is her soul laid bare. The rawness of it is therapeutic, I think. At least I hope so.

There were a few days after I died that I'd been really concerned for her. Almost out of my mind with concern if I'm honest. She kept eyeing the knives and chemicals around her house. Hell she even looked like she was considering throwing herself off the not stripper pole. Only to latch on at the last second. The one time she swallowed more pills than her delicate body could handle. I pressed all my weight on her stomach forcing her to cough up some before throwing a book out her window into the common room of the fire station. Thank god for firemen and medical training. They helped her where I couldn't.

At night I stayed behind at her side (while everyone else tried to sleep fitfully, worry and fear making their dreams dark) and held her hand tightly between my palms. As I realized it just takes effort and practice to reach the living world. Like anything worth doing it took time for me to learn just how to interact without knocking all her books to the floor. As I held her hand I willed whatever life or not life inside me, back into her. To restore some of her spirit and joy to her and to this world. I said before I was lucky and I am. I don't haunt a building but a person. I haunt _her._ Though what that means for me when she dies I don't know. Hell I don't even know if what I'm doing isn't technically leaning closer to possession than overly concerned observations. The last thing I really want is some priest coming in and screaming 'Jesus Christ compels me!'

Something must have worked because one day she sat up and decided she was going to school. When her father asked her 'why engineering' she said,

"I want to solve some of the world's problems." I couldn't help the smile and heated feeling building in my chest. Though guilt was the cement around all my warm feelings. I never wanted her to feel like she had to live her life for me.

"You know the reason I think we are all stuck here is because we want something." I tell Zoe knowing she can't hear me. But sometimes it's nice to pretend she can. That we're just two people having a conversation at a table. "I mean that's what TV tells us anyway, and you know TV never lies to you." I chuckle weakly watching the black ink scribble out of her pen furiously. "I think what I want is for you to be happy." I breathe. Zoe's pen stutters to a stop. She slowly in neat beautiful cursive letters writes 'Happy.' I blink, her honey brown eyes feel like they're staring into me. Into my eyes even though I know she had to be looking behind me to the sunset. She smiles softly. That girl I met on top of the fire truck smiles through her cloud of sadness and pierces into my heart. She slowly writes under the 'happy' 'with you' and you know the strange thing? I think she's right. This moment is happiness bottled collected with hope and mixed up with longing, tied together with desires, to rest in the somewhere between the space of her world and mine. Dying sucks but she makes it seem almost like a good thing. In this moment I smile to myself and whisper. "I'm happiest with you and that won't ever change." For a moment I allow myself to believe her smile is for me and my words have reached through the impossible chasm to land as whispers in her ear. That moment is more than enough for me, it's a lifetime of happiness in a second with her.

* * *

So this is my first story for this series ever... I'm a little worried because I realize it's totally an AU and it's probably a bit OOC for both Kyle and Zoe. I took part of the idea from a writing prompt I read a few weeks ago about the characters being a firefighter and one not making it out. It just seemed to fit American Horror Story perfectly and since I'm totally late to the fandom and fell for the show hard just last month I had to write something about it.

But I also wanted to post this anyway because a friend of mine passed away today. He was an amazing person and very creative and wonderful. To honor him and his creative spirit I wanted to put up something different than what I normally write. I hope it wasn't so out of character that it drove you nuts. I realized about midway that this Kyle I wrote feels like a strange Tate Kyle hybrid at times. If you have time please review and let me know what you think! I was considering writing a second part to this but we'll see how it goes. Anyway thank you for taking the time to read this! I really can't thank you enough!


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